So the Zombie fell in love with the Human?
by Miss Snazzy
Summary: "Okay…did you…want a treat?"  Her eyebrows rise.  "Because I'm pretty sure giving you a couple fingers would kind of defeat the purpose of you saving me." AU. Dark Humor. Not a crackfic...I don't think.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I told my friend I wanted to make and sell Gryffindor scarves. She said she wanted to sell Zombie Apocalypse Survival kits. This basically stemmed from that conversation.**

So the Zombie fell in love with the Human?

…

It wasn't meant to be like this—she doesn't think.

There was supposed to be sunshine and roses and chocolates—not all this bleak beige and dirt and black gunk that always seems to be leaking out. She really wants to know where the hell it all comes from because all the diagrams she has ever seen are filled with _color_. Unless the change shifts the shades too, she can't help but wonder if we're all that dark inside.

Some things were the same.

Worlds shifted, any and all prior commitments forgotten, locked eyes communicating a desperate hunger for the other—except, not in the way she expected.

No. This was a hunger for flesh and well—hmm. When she thinks of it this way, she can't seem to stop a smile at the realization of how _similar_ it all sounds.

But it isn't. Despite all his extra gifts and his adamant proclamations—she laughs at this—it just isn't. Not really.

Maybe there's something wrong with her.

She sighs.

Maybe she's just a sucker for a pretty face.

And lonely.

Nope. Can't forget that.

…

**Zombie Apocalypses have been done, but has this? I'm not sure. Either way, I hope you guys like it.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I told my friend I wanted to make and sell Gryffindor scarves. She said she wanted to sell Zombie Apocalypse Survival kits. This basically stemmed from that conversation.**

So the Zombie fell in love with the Human?

…

She can't remember when it all started, but she can remember when she realized things were going to change.

The day Charlie pressed a shotgun into her hand.

All of the news reports and conspiracy theorists' voices had been little more than background noise before that, their worries and pleas and _warnings_ barely making a crack in the walls her monotonous life had constructed around her.

Still, despite marking this as the change, she remembers the way it really went—light, carefree, and undoubtedly sarcastic.

There were no declarations on his part, but then, anything apart from his scraggly mustached smile would've been a strange thing to behold and very _not_ Charlie. He just told her where to point and how to shoot—about as effective as an instructional video.

That had been taped over.

"Hold it tight, or you'll get some kick back," he'd said after she'd already fired several times. She can almost still feel the massive bruise that had blossomed on half her chest and arm.

She remembers how he shook his head at her upon seeing it and how his lips sort of went all curvy as he fought to decide whether to be disappointed or proud of her because she was a great shot regardless.

That was the beginning, she decides. Not very loud or insistent or _THIS IS HAPPENING NOW_, but—nonetheless.

The end is…clearer. And she supposes it adheres to the requirements of _The End_, although she remembers how it felt and can't seem to think of anything but—_how anticlimactic_.

The TV was on—showing some movie she still can't really remember, but she figures that's fine because if she tried to watch it again, there'd probably be a whole mess of PTSD triggers waiting for her.

The doorknob turned—somehow both slow and jittery—and if she had been there now, she would've said something to her past self, like what one might yell at a movie screen during a horror film.

But she isn't there and can therefore say nothing as the door finally opens and Charlie's injured body collapses just over the threshold. His eyes blink less quickly than the blood flows out and his gaze somehow finds hers despite his state.

"Hey kiddo," he says this…and then he's gone.

She stares.

The outside world is in chaos. His body isn't moving. People are looting everything not nailed down. His eyes are frozen open. There's quite possibly no hope for humanity as the undead quickly devours the population. His blood is spreading _everywhere_.

And this is what snaps her out of her trance. Not that he's _dead_, but that he's _bleeding everywhere_ and she can't possibly be expected to _clean it all up_.

The _predicament_ is what twists her insides and this is when she _knows_ that she's going to Hell. Because a _good_ person would be sobbing endlessly over their father's corpse, but she's worried she won't be able to get the stain out.

He wasn't a bad father either, though it'd be so much easier if he had been. She would then be able to chock up her lack of _proper _emotion to his poor treatment of her, thereby absolving her of whatever guilt she might feel.

When she went to move him, that's when she noticed. Somehow the blood and the knowledge that he was injured hadn't clued her into _how_ exactly he had been hurt, but now she could see it.

A gunshot wound.

It's the zombie apocalypse and he dies from a shot to the abdomen.

Huh. She supposes that's just as well. Wouldn't want to die like everyone else just to fit in and besides, who would _want_ being mauled by their neighbors as their fate?

So it might not have been full of tearful goodbyes or familial affection, but that was the end—her father buried unceremoniously in the yard and then several hours of scrubbing.

…

**Next chapter: First Sight—Zombified**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I told my friend I wanted to make and sell Gryffindor scarves. She said she wanted to sell Zombie Apocalypse Survival kits. This basically stemmed from that conversation.**

So the Zombie fell in love with the Human?

…

"Top Ramen—the perfect meal for the average college student and the zombie apocalypse survivor."

She says this as she loads her shopping cart which she's pushing with one hand while the other stays purposefully on the trigger of her dead father's shotgun. Her jeans are weighed down by all of the ammo she packed in them and despite how much she loves the shotgun, she thinks it might be impractical.

Two shots. Pause for reload. Two shots. Pause for reload.

She was just lucky she was a good shot—and dexterous.

Stanley-Man-Hands would've been toast in the same position. Those massive hands would pack quite a punch though. Although, she figures it'd be hard punching something that could just as easily take a bite out of your fist.

It isn't until she's in the feminine aisle that she gets that prickling feeling. You know…the one where you just _know_ someone's watching you?

Dropping the box of tampons into the cart, she cocks the gun, relishing in the definitive click it makes, and swivels the barrel toward the latest zombie, ready to fire in a matter of seconds.

She doesn't though. Because for one brief moment, all the survival instincts she might've had fly right out the window and she's left blushing and cursing like the nineteen year old girl she really is.

This zombie is _gorgeous_ and that's why she's cursing. Only in her miserable life would a hot guy pop up while she's comparing tampon brands. Apparently even during the apocalypse she can't seem to shake that horrified feeling she'd get just by _thinking_ about heading to the feminine aisle. Her mind was dirtier than any gutter, but when it came to buying products specifically made to shove up the baby maker, she just _couldn't_. She had always made Charlie buy them for her.

Of course, she had gotten a bit desperate since before the world began to end and she'd had to summon the courage to even be standing there now. She had comforted herself by thinking about how practically everyone was dead and she had nothing to worry about when it came to the embarrassment of being caught.

She hadn't expected this though. For this guy, _dead_...sort of worked for him.

His bright hair seemed to flicker like fire in its disarray, his pallid complexion only further enhancing its brilliant color. The torn clothes worn loose but snug in all the right places made the look more of a fashion statement than evidence of apocalyptic mischief and in all honesty, she had always been a bit attracted to grunge.

"Good lord, I'm a necrophiliac," she says with wide eyes.

The guy freezes, almost as if he can understand her, but she knows that isn't possible. At least, she doesn't think it is. When she admitted that it was in fact her who had run over the Black's dog to an undead Jacob, he didn't seem to want to chew on her leg any more or less.

He couldn't possibly understand her. Their brains rot far faster than their bodies do—but he doesn't look all that…decomposed. In fact, as her eyes scan his body, she can't seem to find any of the peeling flesh or black gunk that's usually pouring out of every crevice of the undead. And when she looks into his eyes—

She's stunned speechless. He's staring right at _her_, but not in the typical—_I'm SO gonna eat you—_kind of way. Though there's a twinkle of that in there too.

No, his gaze is locked onto hers almost as if he really _can_ understand and—is that amusement she sees?

Her eyes narrow and her jaw clenches in an effort to restrain her anger when she realizes she doesn't _need_ to hold herself back. Despite whatever fanciful tricks this guy may have, this is still the apocalypse and she can say _whatever she wants_.

"You think that's funny?" she growls at him, for some reason expecting an answer.

His head cocks to the side and if she hadn't been so angry and embarrassed, she might've wondered why he wasn't charging at her, but instead, she finds herself distracted by what seems to be a _smirk_ on his colorless face.

"_Oh!_" she grits her teeth, resisting the urge to tackle him and grabs another box of tampons off the shelf beside her. "_Take this you stupid cannibal bastard!_"

The box hits her target straight on—right between his eyes—before falling at his feet. Both stare at the box for a moment and it isn't until she hears an animalistic growl that she realizes she's an _idiot_.

Not only did she throw a box of _Depends_ at him, but she lost visual contact with a _freaking zombie_.

"How thick could you get," she grumbles the quote to herself as she pries her gaze from the box of adult diapers.

_This_ is what she should've been seeing all long. Gone was the unusual calm and comprehension, the almost man now replaced with a furious corpse.

Still attractive, she thinks.

"Lovely." She rolls her eyes to herself.

But gone is the self-deprecating humor when she realizes something horrifying—there's someone behind her and unless it's Ben Cheney coming to tell her he's avoided death by hiding in a secret toilet paper fort in the aisle next door and has come to save her, she's pretty sure it's another zombie.

They're the stale Oreos and she's the delicious cream filling. She wonders how they'll divvy up her remains, or if they'll just duke it out like something on the Discovery Channel. Exert their alpha-maleness and whatnot.

The hot zombie lunges first, but despite the fact that her shotgun had been trailed on him, she misses. He was fast. _Too fast_. Zombies don't move _that fast_.

"And where's the pain?" she wonders aloud, now realizing he had moved passed her.

When she turns, she finds the hot zombie wrestling some burly female zombie to the ground. He has yanked the massive woman's head off before she can even _think_ about taking a shot.

He's the mega zombie. Max in Resident Evil: Apocalypse. She isn't sure, but she stops theorizing as his gaze settles back on her. That's when she realizes—

"—I am so dead."

The weight of the shotgun in her hands proves to be an option. Not to kill him because she's pretty sure that's a pointless endeavor, but to end her own misery. She'd rather die from a bullet wound than become a chicken wing.

But. She can't seem to do it. Not because she has so much to live for—although she has had a lot more time to read her favorites—but because she can't stop thinking about _The Mist_ and if her story ended like that, she would be so freaking pissed.

The choice should've been taking out of her hands at that point because once again, her indecisiveness had caused that small window of action time to run out, but miraculously, she was still very much intact.

In fact, the hot zombie was just staring at her expectantly.

"Um…well…this is…odd," she says to herself, although she appears to be talking to him. The Twilight Zone theme song is a faint background noise to her whirling thoughts.

Unnerved by his steady gaze, she begins to back away, barely remembering to grab her cart. She stops when he begins to follow her, his expectant look still in place.

"Okay…did you…want a treat?" Her eyebrows rise. "Because I'm pretty sure giving you a couple fingers would kind of defeat the purpose of you saving me."

No sooner than the words leaving her mouth, does she wonder if that's what this was—him saving her.

She shakes her head because despite whatever it may have looked like, something like that would take compassion and a corpse couldn't _care_.

Resolved to escape the strange situation she had found herself in, she grabs her bag out of the cart and loads the items before slinging the strap over her shoulder. She hadn't actually needed the cart at all really, but she enjoyed the normalcy.

She takes another step back and when he begins to mimic, she turns and takes off running. He's much faster than the other zombies and she knows that if he wants to, he could easily catch her.

But she's human and the fight or flight mechanism in her brain decided upon fleeing.

When she's back outside with the few staggering zombies that haven't left to search for bigger and better things, she wonders why she's disappointed the hot one didn't follow her.

"Idiot," she reminds herself before dispatching a zombie.

"So _this_ is what video games have been preparing us for," she smirks.

…

**0.o**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I told my friend I wanted to make and sell Gryffindor scarves. She said she wanted to sell Zombie Apocalypse Survival kits. This basically stemmed from that conversation.**

So the Zombie fell in love with the Human?

…

Days have passed since the supermarket incident, which had been labeled a fluke. She has practically forgotten about the hot zombie, rationalizing his oddly human-like actions for a testament to his brain damage, and her ridiculous attraction to loneliness. After all, being deprived of company for so long could make even the most revolting person easy on the eyes—something that's evident with newly released criminals. Or so, the movies and television shows she used to watch suggested.

So she's really taken by surprise when halfway to the garbage, she finds him standing there.

He doesn't seem to have noticed her yet, so absorbed in whatever he's doing. It's as she hesitantly steps closer that she realizes he's sniffing through her garbage.

"Eww," she says, momentarily forgetting that she should be _sneaking_—not alerting him to her presence.

His gaze snaps up to hers, wide-eyed and guilty as if realizing he had been caught.

"Didn't know zombies had shame." She gestures to the overflowing trash. "But then, I guess you don't."

She wasn't sure why she was speaking to him as if he was a person, the words just seemed to slip unbidden passed her lips, her mind deciding it had found someone to converse with, rather than doing the sensible thing and making her react to the very dangerous situation his presence proposed.

Oddly enough, she wasn't afraid. She knew he could kill her at any moment and that she should _do something_ because this was a frightening predicament, but she didn't actually _feel_ afraid.

The hot zombie appeared mildly ashamed at her words and she was once again struck by how _human_-like he was.

"It's almost as if you can understand me…" she trails off at his intent gaze.

_Maybe he does_, she amends silently.

Her gaze flits over his body again, searching for some definitive quality that would clear up her confusion. She wanted to classify him in one category or the other, desperate to eliminate the gray space he was currently occupying.

But life rarely consists of just black and white and despite her need to _know_ how to behave around him, she secretly hoped he'd stay gray.

Gray meant something new and as scary as that concept was—it also created possibilities.

Shaking her head at her own ridiculous thoughts, she does the most sensible thing she can think to do.

"Shoo!" She urges him away with a wave of her hand.

Is it a demeaning gesture to make at a super zombie? Maybe. But she's a bit out of her element and therefore can't be expected to respect some social code.

He continues to stare at her—of course—except, now his gaze seems almost _pleading_.

But for what? A piece of her to munch on? Somehow, she doubts that.

Logically, she knows the answer to the equation—hungry zombie plus defenseless human equals bad news—but she also recognizes that maybe the same rules don't apply. Because if they did, she'd be dead by now—not trying to send the hot zombie away like a mangy dog.

"Damn you, logic. You've betrayed me," she declares, annoyed at her inability to decide _anything_ about this anomalous man.

As a last ditch effort to put off killing him—or not—she takes a step back. If she left him now, maybe he would be gone the next day. She wouldn't actively seek him out and there's a good chance they would never run into each other again, considering the fact that she had only seen him once before.

Of course, he had been rifling through _her _garbage and she wasn't sure that could be classified as a coincidence. She wonders if he had been able to find her by following her scent.

She was still a little iffy about swimming during _that time of the month_ because although it sounds farfetched and came from a refutable source, she's a bit worried a shark might _smell her_.

Had _he_ smelled her?

She grimaces at the thought, secretly hoping she didn't smell terrible

He compensates for her retreat by taking a step forward and she wonders if he even realizes what he's doing. Are these the actions of a semi-intelligent being, or the result of such a deeply buried need to _annoy_ being carried on through death?

They continue to stand there—a stalemate of sorts.

It's unnerving—this little game they've got going. Because she can't dissect the intentions of a _corpse_ and who knew what kind of drives they had apart from their ongoing quest for flesh and the universal spread of their disease.

"What do you want?" This question, she asks earnestly and she's silently begging him to just answer her, so that she can just _know_.

The pleading has been joined by desperation now and she kind of hates herself for wanting to help, to soothe away whatever ails the undead.

They stare at each other for a long moment.

Ideas race through her mind, each dismissed as quickly as they are thought up. She isn't sure _why_ she is so averse to killing him.

The loneliness? Perhaps that was why she stayed her hand. Ages had passed since her last real conversation and the lack of social interaction was beginning to take its toll.

Ironic, she thinks. Because before the apocalypse, she preferred to be alone, forgoing spending time with people at school to remain locked up in her room.

It's a classic case of wanting what you can't have. No one ever truly appreciates something until it's gone.

Of course, she isn't actually the only living person left in Forks. A small group of survivors did what most people do in a crisis—turned to religion. Reverend Weber and his family had welcomed the townspeople with open arms, behaving as kind-hearted people through and through.

They even offered her a place among them, but she had quickly turned them down.

If there is one thing to avoid in an apocalypse, that is a religious nut. Sure, the Webers had always been decent people, but a little fear can make even the sanest fall of their rocker.

Again, the Mist had left her weary.

Besides, Mike Newton was among them and she just knew he would keep pestering her to help him repopulate the Earth. It would be the same argument he gave when practically everyone was out of school with food poisoning. She had never been happier to be a picky eater than in that moment.

Well, that was until she realized she would be trapped with Newton.

Cue shudder.

So if she _really_ had a craving to talk, she _could_ venture over to the church, but she figured that endeavor would be more dangerous than inviting this super zombie into her house.

Huh, she thinks.

It's stupid and crazy and maybe _she_ has gone mad, but…

She takes another step back, not surprised to see him mirror her move. In fact, she was kind of counting on it.

Keep moving, she tells herself. If he happens to follow…well…then that's not really in her control, is it?

Again, she isn't surprised when her household gains an extra member as she locks them both in, away from the outside world of violence, carnage, and disease. It dawns on her that she may as well be shutting the door on her humanity and more importantly—common sense.

Not until they are both inside does she realize she has no idea what to do with a super zombie.

"So…you're potty trained right?" she laughs uneasily.

…

**Not my favorite chapter, but we're moving forward. **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I told my friend I wanted to make and sell Gryffindor scarves. She said she wanted to sell Zombie Apocalypse Survival kits. This basically stemmed from that conversation.**

So the Zombie fell in love with the Human?

…

This is so unlike her.

Every choice in her life is meticulously dissected, the pros and cons weighed, and only after ages of consideration and debate, does she finally make a decision. It's her system and she uses it so often, she wonders if the aches in her head are from thinking too much.

This is so unlike her…yet it absolutely is.

All of the planning is a moot point, really. Because _then_, she does something like _this_. She does something _reckless_—all of her deliberation up until this point only serving to make the moment that much more explosive.

Her common sense and so-called knowledge might as well dribble out of the holes in her head for all the good that it does her.

The difficult part of the whole situation is that she _knows_ better and this is what will keep her berating herself for years to come.

Assuming she lives that long, which is kind of unlikely anyway, given that she's currently in the apocalypse.

Sore eyes flit back to her new roommate and it's only with a disinterested huff that she acknowledges that _he's still just sitting there, staring_, before she returns her attention to her game.

It's terribly boring to play Scrabble by herself, but it's something to do and she _needs_ to keep her mind busy. Although she would rather be reading, she _knows_ that would put her right to sleep and she just _can't_.

She hasn't slept since she invited him in and the hot zombie has done nothing but follow her around the house as she tries to stay awake.

Despite recognizing that she was doomed the moment she let him in, somehow she had convinced herself that she was safe as long as she kept herself vigilant around him.

She groans at her lack of useful letters before sluggishly scooting over to the spot next to her. Pretending to be an entirely different person, she adopts a poor excuse of a British accent and takes her turn.

"Oh, I'm just bloody brilliant!" she exclaims, letting her pinky rise as if she were drinking tea.

The zombie stares at her as if she's gone mad—she isn't sure if that's the expression she sees or if it's just something her fried brain has cooked up—and she lashes out.

"Don't you do anything but stare!" she yells at him, surprised when he tucks his head to his chest and begins to curl in on himself.

She sighs, wondering if she's the sappiest person in the world or just incredibly pathetic to feel guilty about hurting a zombie's feelings.

"Look…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. It's just that I'm so damn tired and I feel like I might go insane," she laughs shakily, close to tears.

Her eyes are beginning to sting and she really doesn't want to cry. As she's rubbing them tiredly, the zombie slowly opens up, returning his gaze to her somewhat hunched form. When she finally removes her hands from her face, her eyes flit to him and she jumps in surprise when she finds him sitting across from her.

He reaches for one of the letters on the board and she can't manage to restrain herself.

"Hey! You had better not eat those. It took me ages to find a Scrabble game with all its pieces," she warns, itching to snatch the game away from him.

Instead of putting it in his mouth or tossing it across the room like she had thought he would, she watches in astonishment as he begins to arrange the letters on the board.

"S-L-E-E-P," she reads the letters aloud as he places them. "Sleep?" she asks.

She notices a slight nod of his head as he keeps staring at her.

"You can spell?" she asks incredulously. "You can understand me?"

Again, he gives a barely there nod and she stares at him in shock. She had known that he was more intelligent than the others, but comprehension of language? How was that even possible?

He begins to spell something else and she waits with bated breath, feeling far more alert than she had before.

"Edward…"she reads slowly. "Is that your name?"

He offers her a close-lipped smile this time and she wonders if he knows a lot more than he has been letting on. She grimaces as she realizes he could understand everything she had been saying, which admittedly was far too much.

Everyone talks to themselves, but living alone in the apocalypse had made that much more than a habit for her.

He brings her out of her thoughts when he points at one of the words.

"Bed?" she says, glancing at the first word he had formed. "You want me to go to sleep?"

He replies with an affirmative nod and she rolls her eyes.

"Nonsense. I'm perfectly coherent," she says in a grand voice.

She tries to stand up, but doesn't quite make it and falls on her back.

"I'm also a bit dizzy," she remarks, staring at the ceiling.

Even if he is at least semi-intelligent, which she already knew, that didn't mean she was safe sleeping around him. In fact, it made him far more dangerous.

Her view of the ceiling is cut off when the hot zombie—_Edward_, she corrects herself mentally—is suddenly hovering over her.

"This isn't the desert and the hills don't have eyes, so don't be getting any ideas," she cautions, a little worried about why he's invading her space.

The space between their bodies is distinctive and thick, as if a barrier had been placed to ensure they never grew too close. His head, however, is tipped forward, bringing their faces much closer. She can't feel his breath or anything like that—she isn't sure he needs to breathe—but the proximity is making her thoughts simultaneously shut off and go haywire. Part of her seems numb to the ordeal, while the other is just overwhelmed.

He doesn't speak, but then, she still doesn't know if he can. The idea isn't too farfetched though, not after watching him spell out words on her Scrabble board.

Almost as if hearing her thoughts, his gaze darts purposefully toward _sleep_, and she doesn't even bother trying to restrain her eye roll.

"I'm not tired," she lies again.

Really, she is pretty close to giving into sleep anyway, but she never could resist an argument.

One of his hands supports his body above hers as he uses his other hand to point at the word this time, the simple gesture emphasizing the point he's trying to get across.

She raises an eyebrow at the silent demand. The sides of her mouth quirk up in a very Grinch-like smirk as she blatantly refuses.

"No."

Not a moment after the defiance leaves her lips, does she feel her body being swept off the ground. Before she can do anything—scream, grab her shotgun, etc—they're moving up the stairs. In a flash, she lands on her bed, gasping for breath at the sudden movement.

"Holy…shit," she gasps, "you're…fast."

Now that she's lying in bed, she can't imagine getting back up. Resigned, she pulls back the covers, ready to slide in and embrace sleep. There is a good possibility that she will wake up to Edward chomping on her foot, but at this point, she is exhausted enough not to care.

Her eyebrow lifts as Edward starts to climb into her bed.

"No. Hey!" she exclaims, managing to gain his attention. "There will be none of this," she gestures between them and the bed. "I don't just jump into bed with random guys. Or random _undead_ guys. Well, maybe if Angel asked, I'd say yes…" she rambles. "But that's beside the point. He's fictional."

He stares at her for a moment, before continuing to join her.

"Stop." Her hand covers his on the blanket and his gaze turns sharper. Despite the layer of dirt she can feel coating his skin, her heart flutters at the contact. She internally rolls her eyes at herself and her stupid bodily reactions.

"Look, I can get you blankets or something and you can stay somewhere else in the house, but…not here," she tells him gently.

He's gone in the blink of an eye and she briefly wonders if she scared him off, when she notices something out of the corner of her eye. In the corner of her room, Edward is now sitting stiffly in her grandma's old rocking chair.

"Whoa," she breathes at his swiftness and turns toward him. "Seriously, I can get you some blankets or something?" she offers again uncertainly.

He stares at her for a moment longer and she worries for a moment that he'll expect her to fall asleep like _that_, when his eyes suddenly close.

She doesn't remember seeing him _blink_, let alone shut his eyes since she first saw him. Suffice to say, she is a bit shocked and watches dumbfounded as he remains like that, almost appearing asleep.

Her eyelids eventually begin to sag and she sighs, realizing he isn't going to open his eyes anytime soon. Although she didn't think she would be able to fall asleep with him staring at her, she can't help but miss the weight of his gaze as she finally loses consciousness.

…

**Random Tweet: "Would you have intercourse with a zombie if it was really hot, barely decomposed, and had its mouth wired shut?"**

**Daniel Tosh: "Uh, it's not the zombie's mouth I'm worried about."**

**Made me laugh. **

**The question is…would Bella?**

**Keep reading to find out. =p**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I told my friend I wanted to make and sell Gryffindor scarves. She said she wanted to sell Zombie Apocalypse Survival kits. This basically stemmed from that conversation.**

So the Zombie fell in love with the Human?

…

There were several things she expected to find when she woke up. Most of the scenarios consisted of Edward munching on one of her body parts like a chicken wing. She even had a few jokes already lined up, assuming she wouldn't be too busy screaming. After all, her instincts were a bit off, so who knows?

Maybe she would find the sensation ticklish or it would bring relief—the kind cutters mutilate themselves for.

At any rate, she had it all planned out. She would prop herself up on her elbows, look at his blood-stained mouth, and say—

"I hope that's ketchup."

Not the funniest, but it was the best she could come up with in the murky land of almost-asleep-but-not-quite.

Apart from that, she was kind of hoping she'd wake to find a mural made of Scrabble pieces stuck to her wall. Before the creepiness of the act sunk in, she was sure it would just be magnificent.

Anyway.

Of all the ridiculous ideas she had come up with, she had not considered the actual outcome.

His absence.

Vague memories of a fish she once had when she was little filter in. While Charlie was busy preparing their dinner Mrs. Doubtfire-style, she couldn't help but notice how lonely Clyde looked. In an effort to wipe the frown off of Clyde the fish, she decided to introduce him to Victoria, her neighbor's cat.

Clearly she has a gift for horrid matchmaking, only further proven by her actions pertaining to the hot zombie.

Who she doesn't miss. Nope. Not at all.

She sighs, finally accepting the fact that her zombie friend is gone. She can really only check the house so many times before it just begins bordering on the pathetic. An amount she has already exceeded.

It's just as well, she realizes. She hardly had the qualifications to take care of anyone else, even if the person in question was dead. If anyone could find a way to muddle that up, she figures she would be the one to do it.

Besides, it was incredibly dangerous letting it in her house, let alone falling asleep with it in the room. If there was an award for _Most Idiotic Apocalyptic Survivor_, she would be a shoe in.

"I'd like to thank my parents, for without their wonderful genetics, I wouldn't be the defective girl you see today," she speaks into her hairbrush sarcastically.

She spots the Scrabble board, noting with dissatisfaction that it hasn't been touched. Despite her need to preserve its condition, she was a little disappointed Edward hadn't left her a message or something. She throws the pieces back into the box, taking far less care than she typically did in putting it away.

"Stupid Scrabble board," she grumbles. "UpWords is better."

Time to stock up.

Her street is usually deserted, considering the zombies would have to sift through rows of trees to gain access. The old dirt road used to seem like such a hassle pre-apocalypse, but now it created a nice barrier.

Why the zombies avoided the forest? She didn't know. Since they operated on instinct, she wonders if somewhere in their decayed brains they still recognize the foliage's propensity for danger.

Whatever the reason, it has become the easiest way to travel. Most of the larger animals have died out, something she is kind of really happy about, especially remembering those crazy zombie dogs from Resident Evil.

The trek generally takes a bit of time, but she has an endless amount of that—at least, when she isn't being chased down by zombies. Mostly, she kind of just admires the ridiculously green trees and how despite everything, their branches are still clawing their way toward the sky.

It's easier—being alone like this. There's no one to judge her and she doesn't have to pretend to be heartbroken over everyone she has lost.

Yeah, it's sad. Realizing that pretty much everyone you ever knew is just _gone_, is sad.

But she doesn't feel heartbroken and she didn't even _cry_ and honestly, there's only _guilt_.

So maybe having someone to direct her chatter at was kind of nice, but it also reminded her that she shouldn't be making jokes or playing Scrabble because everyone else is _dead_.

She's a terrible person—she realizes this. Because only a terrible person would think about how _easy_ life is without everyone else.

She doesn't have to worry about her future or making something of herself because there's no one left to please, no expectations to meet. She can just do what she wants, when she wants.

Apocalypse?

She calls it _freedom_.

Of course, there are several things she misses from before the zombies took over. It's unbelievably easy to take the conveniences of modern living for granted when you're neck deep in it.

The obvious answer is Charlie. She should miss Charlie more than anything. Each day should be unbearable knowing that the person she has spent the majority of her life with and that stood as her last tie to the world she used to know, is gone.

That would be the _right_ answer, but...

All she can think about is fucking IHOP.

This craving isn't for the restaurant's famous pancakes or any of their other supposedly scrumptious breakfast dishes. No, this is for their generally overlooked French fries.

Her mouth salivates at the thought of slipping one golden fry between her teeth and allowing her tongue to soak in the seasoning that makes them so addicting.

She feels like a goddamn zombie, in the way that those stupid fries seem to consume her thoughts, making her stomach ache with a need that she knows will never be truly filled.

Because surprise, surprise! It's extraordinarily difficult to find genuine IHOP French fries when all of their employees are busy picking chunks of leftover brains out of their teeth.

Even that grueling image doesn't curb the hunger and she knows there might not be anything that could make her lose her appetite for this particular treat.

Now there's definitely regret because if she _had_ gotten a job at a fast food restaurant like all of the other teens in town, she would probably know how to operate a fryer.

But _no_, she had to be a stuck-up bitch and flirt her way into being hired at Newton's, just so that she could avoid the whole paper hat and overly cheery smile she would have to wear as grease splattered across her face and unruly customers treated her like the filth beneath their shoes.

Right now, she would give anything to be a pock-marked teen cliché if it meant getting some of those wonderfully seasoned fries.

"I'm really getting Tallahassee's Twinkie madness now," she sighs.

_Zombieland_ was perhaps one of the best films of the year, mainly because people had just enough time to see it before they were sucked into their own apocalypse. Honestly, that movie had taught her more about surviving than any low-budget video shown in Health class ever could.

All that energy spent on diet and nutrition seemed like such a waste now. Sure, health is a factor when it comes to outrunning zombies and whatnot, but it's all those lurking killers that have kind of become a moot point.

After all, dying of heart disease forty years from now? One could be so lucky.

She remembers back when Charlie would wake her up at ten—a horrible crime for a Saturday—with promises of going out for breakfast if she got up quickly.

They would sit in one of those booths, awkward silences eventually falling to laughter and satisfaction when their food finally arrived. Charlie would jokingly try to steal one of her fries, continuously refusing to get a side of his own since he was actually eating _breakfast _foods.

"I told you. You can't have any. I barely get any as it is," she kind of glares at him.

"They really don't give you much, do they?" he asks, raising an eyebrow and pretending not to see her glare as he eats another fry.

"No, they don't. That's why I told you to get your own if you wanted any," she reminds him.

He gives her that same look he always does, the one that says—I'm paying for this, so shut up—but before he can take another one from her quickly dwindling reserve of fries, she distracts him.

"Want some chicken?" she smiles, more than willing to sacrifice one of her chicken strips to save a few more fries.

The memories that come after that are absolutely annoying. Eating out was directly associated with gaining weight and like any other red-blooded teen girl, she was terrified of ballooning up.

Despite how wonderfully delicious those French fries were, she would inevitably feel guilty for eating so much. The amount of time devoted to obsessing over weight seems insane now, and again, she can't help but acknowledge how pointless all that worrying had been.

"Oh, Bella Swan of the past. There is so much I could teach you."

...

**Don't worry.  
Edward shall return.**

**I painted a Zombie.  
Wanna see?**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I told my friend I wanted to make and sell Gryffindor scarves. She said she wanted to sell Zombie Apocalypse Survival kits. This basically stemmed from that conversation.**

So the Zombie fell in love with the Human?

…

What is the proper etiquette for a moment like this?

Does she roll up a newspaper and swat him on the nose, lecturing him for making her worry like some runaway pet? Does she welcome him with open arms, not even needing to hold her breath against his stench because she's just so euphoric over his return?

It's a serious question that she contemplates as she stares at Edward through her living room curtains.

The first option would be kind of funny, although she would never admit to being worried about what was essentially a dead animal. Besides, where the hell was she going to get a newspaper?

The second option is almost a taboo—a fact that makes it even more appealing—but she knows she just _can't_ do that.

Indecision—a really crippling issue that she has yet to overcome, despite the need to make quick choices while living in the apocalypse—results in the utilization of neither option.

Instead, she busies herself around the house. There's a zombie staring at her—she can feel it—but she continues to dust and pick up trash because _he_ was the one who abandoned _her_ and she isn't going to drop everything just because he has returned.

Part of her worries her lack of acknowledgement will drive him away, but that other, far more stubborn part of her glues her focus to a stain on the carpet.

"Grape juice?" she murmurs, wondering if there was ever a time when this stain _wasn't_ here.

She can't find a memory in which the carpet is spotless, so it's entirely likely that this blemish has been here since before she was born.

She scrubs at it, regardless.

So intent is she on her task—and ignoring a certain zombie—that when she hears a crash from outside, she kind of screams.

"Damn those noisy neighbors," she grumbles to herself, pretending that the girly shriek hadn't come from her, and moves to sit back on her feet to take a peek out the window.

Inconspicuously, of course.

The garbage has been knocked over, leaving bits of trash strewn across the sidewalk in front of her house. It will attract unwanted visitors if she doesn't clean it up—a realization that serves to annoy her further.

It's difficult to dispose of waste when there isn't anyone around to facilitate that kind of thing. Good thing Forks had its own dump and Charlie bought her that behemoth of a truck with an excellent amount of trunk space.

He's still there, but instead of that tilted statue-like stance he generally adopts, he's sitting on the ground with his arms wrapped around his knees, rocking.

He looks so much like a broken little boy, she thinks. If he were able, she imagines he would probably be crying.

This is when she realizes it's time for her little silent treatment to end because—_you never interfere in the affairs of other peoples or planets unless there's children crying_.

"Of all the fantastical things to exist, why did it have to be zombies? Why couldn't it have been the Doctor?" she complains.

So maybe Edward isn't a child—or even crying, really—but he's...close enough and this gives her the perfect excuse to do something entirely stupid.

His head doesn't snap up like it usually does when she approaches. A troublesome detail, indeed.

Now that she's standing right beside him, she can see a difference from the zombie she had met days ago.

His once sickly skin has lost its green tone and seems more like that industrial white color than anything. Evidence of his decomposing—which had already been remarkably minor—is now completely gone. Even his hair is brighter, although still as dirty as it had been.

"Whoa."

She expects him to move at the sound of her voice, but he doesn't. He is still completely oblivious to her presence and she isn't quite sure what she plans to do, but her hand is extending toward his head.

Armed with her index finger, she pokes at his head and immediately marvels at the soft hair her wayward appendage brushes. Of its own accord, the rest of her hand joins her finger, and begins running through his oddly luxurious hair.

It takes a moment for her to realize that his rocking has stopped, but when she does, her hand is gone.

"Holy personal-space-invader, Batman!" she exclaims, laughing uneasily.

This is what she does when the moment gets awkward—she uses humor. Of course, she conveniently forgets that all of her jokes are more than likely flying right over his head, meaning...well...

That he's kind of just paying attention to her actions.

Quite a scary thought.

More shocking than her unusual display of affection is finding her hand back in that head of hair not a moment later.

"Um..." she trails off, eyes growing progressively wider. "Can I have my hand back?"

As she begins to remove her hand, an odd sound makes her freeze.

"Did you just..._growl_?" she asks uncertainly, staring into the less sunken eyes of the zombie her hand is currently attached to.

A determined gaze stares right back at her incredulous one, practically daring her to remove her hand. He continues looking at her in this new way—not unlike the predator he is supposed to be—until she resumes her stroking.

Several minutes pass before she speaks again.

"I'm not going to do this all day, you know," she points out.

His eyelids slip down and she notices how innocent he appears with those intent dark eyes hidden away.

"I'm serious. At the first sign of hand-cramping, I'm gone."

She takes his silence as confirmation of his understanding.

Several hours later, she wakes, finding herself comfortably tucked into her bed.

"Just a dream, then," she mumbles, allowing sleep to claim her once again before she begins to think about why that bothers her so much.

She doesn't notice the form rocking gently in the corner of her room with a small satisfied smile on his face.

...

**I'm probably going to start posting my Zombie doodles at some point.  
(In case any of you care)  
Here's one:  
http:/snazzmonster(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/Zombie-Boyfriend-203535065  
(Inspired by this story)**


End file.
